


Skylark

by Fantuan



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Attempted Murder, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, ←that's something I made up due to Simcoe's education history
Language: 中文-普通话 國語
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22675552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantuan/pseuds/Fantuan
Summary: A young boy named John once had a dead skylark.
Relationships: Edmund Hewlett/John Graves Simcoe
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in Chinese, then translated it to English. It's for sure that you feel weird or confusing as reading the English version. Please be prepared for my terrible English if you wish to read it. I post the Chinese version in chp.2.

Edmund Hewlett had been invited to teach Astrophysics at Eton College.

It was an elective course, studying basic principles and experimental equipment. He taught for only three weeks or so and then left for something else. He couldn't remember exactly how long he'd been teaching or why he'd left. It was the 1760s, after all, and he was too busy tangling with spies in colonies right now. He did not have a clear impression of those young students, too, because every day there were students walked in or dropped the class; he gave up trying to remember their names in two days.

But he vaguely remembered one thing, about a red-haired boy and a dead bird.

The boy seemed to be one of the few students who came to the class every day. He sat not far from the lectern, always looking down to take notes, and didn't speak up, so Hewlett had no idea who he was.

As the last class was over, Hewlett was tidying up the textbooks and the study case when he saw the boy take a pencil out of his pocket and lent it to someone nearby. Such motion brought out a part of his handkerchief in his pocket. Strangely, the corner cloth was stained with a little brown liquid, like curdled blood.

Worried about the student's health, Hewlett stopped him and said, "What's your name? "

The boy stopped and turned to look at him. Under the Irishman's red hair there was a pair of blue eyes, transparent as glass, looking straight at him. Hewlett estimated that he was seventeen at most, but slender, nearly as tall as the older man.

"John, " he said.

"Are you all right, John? " Hewlett glanced at the corner of the handkerchief.

John cocked his head slightly, not noticing the allusion, "very well, sir. Why? "

Hewlett cleared his throat somewhat sheepishly, "you have blood on your handkerchief. Are you all right? "

To his surprise, there seemed to be a trace of displeasure in the boy's pale figure. "That's not my blood, " he said flatly.

Hewlett was at a loss for words. "So... nobody got hurt? " He was evasive.

The classroom was empty, and he could see impatience lying beneath John’s cultivation. The latter simply took out the handkerchief that wrapped something, unfolded it, and presented it to Hewlett in both hands. "No, " he said, frowning.

It was a skylark. Dead. Its neck, wings, and claws were all strangely stiff and pointing in different directions. Some of its feathers fell off and were stained with blood, perhaps its blood from its beak. It lied in such a lifeless manner on the white handkerchief of death's taint, resting in John’s palms. Hewlett remembered _la comptine française_.

" _L'alouette._ " He said softly, in awe.

"Ma petite alouette. " There was a certain shy pride in the boy's tone.

In fact, Hewlett didn't care for any of those details, the only thing that surprised him was the look on John’s face. John let out a small, half-smile, before quickly retrieving the dead bird. It was not pity or sad smile for a dead creature, but a slightly embarrassed smile that blames himself for not doing great enough. You would see this expression should a student has to hand in a paper when he knows he's not doing a good job, and an artist has to present his work when he knows it's not good enough. His eyes dropped to meet Hewlett's for a brief moment, and the reflection in those blue eyes made the latter one shudder as if he were the broken, dead skylark.

"What's your name, soldier? " The man being questioned winked.

"Simcoe, " he answered, lowering his head slightly and spoke to Hewlett, who just reached his shoulders. "Major. "

The major kept his temper in check, but couldn't help raising his voice and staring at him. "Simcoe. Aren't you trained? If you continue to use unprovoked violence against the inhabitants of Setauket, I will have you tied up and court-martialed. "

For no reason, Simcoe developed a dislike for his small superior. He did not care whether he was being scolded or not; he simply hated the alienated politeness of his face, and the overwhelming, weak kindness. Simcoe felt sick.

But there was something familiar about this guy, he thought.

Hewlett was still speaking, but Simcoe pulled himself together and swore to himself that he would kill him if he ever got that annoying again.

And the time came sooner than he imagined. After taking advantage of Anna, he laughed and mounted his horse, riding in darkness to the drunken American’s encampment, in where less than a quarter he hacked everyone to the ground in less than a quarter and soaked his coat in the blood.

"You start the fire; I'll go killing the major, " he told his only black subordinate, ignoring the bewildered complexion on the latter one’s face.

He practically hummed his way through the cell door (which, he found, was already open). Never again would I have to look at the disgusting expression on that hypocrite’s face. He thought it would be nice to hear him beg before he killed him.

The subject of the murder curled up in a corner, dirty, as if dead. But those brown eyes, wide open, turned unfocused on the ranger. Simcoe felt that he might stab him in the eye first.

Like a snake that strangles its prey before devouring it, making it unable to escape or breathe, Simcoe’s shadow falls on Hewlett, watching the poor one’s expression changed from fear to despair as approaching. He had broken the rabbit's limbs and ripped its belly open, and it was time to chew its throat and tear it to shreds. He heard his grinning voice, like the low growl before the hyena swarms.

Then Hewlett slid the shiny blade into his flank and pressed the handle against his skin. Simcoe saw whiteness after a moment of trance as if he'd pushed open a winter door and been covered in snow. He bowed his head, and the hot blood made him and the emaciated assailant (who had been the victim a moment earlier) cower at the same time. Blood flowed freely, crackling like flames under the moonlight, in the snow, on Hewlett's pale limbs. The ranger felt incredible, although he was the one who was used to see others bleeding -- it turned out to be the only warm and colorful thing in his body and soul.

His prey turned defeat into victory. He let him get away! Simcoe, in fury, tried to recapture him, but only fainted in his cooling fire. By the moment he was defeated, something came back to his mind.

The first living thing killed by him. In the white silk of his handkerchief, his first work. The work was far from satisfactory to him. By the time of seventeen, he had a vague sense of what a work of art really was: it was not enough to deprive the powerless. It is no fun to take the life of the weak. He once licked the blood from the beak of the dead creature, but feeling lost. It bored him, as boring as when he faced Major Hewitt. That being said, that being said. He suddenly knew what to do next.

He found the skylark. He was going to take it back, and he was going to make it his best work, and no one could keep them apart, ever. Even death, the only thing he accepts and needs is the death brought to him by the prey that was drenched in his own blood. Excited by his desire, he propped himself up and was held from falling to the ground by his subordinates. The glassy blue eyes again reflected the broken and dead creature. He was nearly exhausted, but he smiled at last; the voice in his head spoke with the raw pride from nearly a decade ago: " _Mon alouette_. "


	2. Chapter 2

（1）  
地摊文学师生捏造有，病娇未成年逼孩子垃圾有，animal abuse有

埃德蒙·休伊特曾经被邀请去伊顿公学给那些男孩子们教授天体物理。  
那是一门选修课，只不过是一些基础理论和实验器材的学习，他只教了三个星期左右，而后因为一些别的事情便离开了。不过他其实已经记不清楚自己究竟教了多长时间或为什么离开，毕竟那已经是六十年代的事情了，而他现在正忙着和殖民地的间谍们明争暗斗。包括那些年轻的学生们，他也没有什么清晰的印象，因为每天都有新的学生上课或退课，他两天就放弃尝试记住他们的名字了。  
但他隐隐约约地记得一件事情，关于一个红发的男生和一只死去的鸟。  
那个男生似乎是为数不多的每天都来上这门课的学生之一。他坐在离讲台不远不近的地方，总是低头记笔记，并不踊跃发言，所以休伊特对他这个人也没什么印象。  
最后一次课下课的时候，休伊特正在收拾教科书和学案，看到那个男生从口袋里抽出一根铅笔借给身边的人，而这个动作带出了他兜里手帕的一角。奇怪的是，那角布料沾着点点棕色的液体，像凝固了的血液。  
他担心这个学生身体状况不佳，便叫住了他：“你叫什么名字？”  
男生站住，回过身看他。爱尔兰人似的红发下是一双蓝眼睛，像玻璃一样透明，直直地望着他。休伊特估计他最多十七岁，却身形颀长，比自己还要高一点。  
“约翰。”他说。  
“你还好吗，约翰？”休伊特的目光点了一下对方口袋里露出的手帕一角。  
约翰微微地歪了下头，没注意到对方意有所指：“很好，先生。为什么这么问？”  
休伊特有些不好意思地清了清嗓子，把话挑明：“你的手帕上有血。你没事吧？”  
出乎他意料地，男生苍白的面色上似乎浮现了一丝不悦。“那不是我的血。”他平淡地说。  
休伊特一时语塞。“那……没有谁受伤吧？”他闪烁其词。  
这时全教室已经空了，他从约翰的神情中看到了藏在修养下的不耐。后者索性将包裹着什么的手帕拿了出来，展开后捧在双手中送到休伊特眼前。“没有。”他皱着眉说。  
那是一只云雀鸟。死掉的，很显然。它的脖颈、翅膀和爪子全部怪异地僵直着伸向不同方向，有些羽毛脱落了，沾着血，或许是从它的喙里冒出来的自己的血。它就以这样无生命的姿态静静地躺在那张被死亡污染了的白色细绢手帕上，被托在约翰的手心里。休伊特忽然想起了那首法国童谣。  
“L'alouette.”他轻声说，带着敬畏。  
“Ma petite alouette.”男生的语气里有几分羞涩的骄傲。  
事实上，以上这些细节他也不在乎了，唯一让他吃了一惊的是那神色。约翰在快速地收起那只死鸟之前，轻轻地、似笑非笑地叹息了一声。不是对于一个死去生物的怜惜或遗憾的苦笑，而是一种自责的，因为自己完成得不够好而责备自己的有些难堪的微笑。当一个学生明知自己做得不好还必须要交卷时，一个艺术家明知自己的作品不够出色还必须要展出时，你就能看到这种表情。他的目光垂下来，在很短的一个瞬间内与休伊特四目相交，蓝眼珠里的倒影让后者心下一凛，仿佛他就是那只残破死去的云雀。

“你叫什么名字，士兵？”被问到的男人眨了眨眼。  
“西姆科，”休伊特才到他的肩膀，所以他略微地低下头和他说话，“少校。”  
少校克制着自己的火气，却还是忍不住抬高了声音瞪着他：“西姆科。你难道没受过训练吗？如果你再像这次一样对锡托基特的居民无端地采取暴力行为，别怪我把你绑起来送上军事法庭。”  
没来由地，西姆科产生了一种对这个小个子的长官的讨厌。他不在乎对方是不是在斥责他，只是讨厌他面上的那种疏离的礼貌，还有那种简直是泛滥的、软弱的善良。西姆科一阵恶心。  
不过这个家伙有点熟悉，他忽然想。  
休伊特依然在说着什么，但西姆科定了定神，在心里暗暗发誓如果对方再这么惹人厌，他就杀了他。  
而时机到来得比他想象得还快。占够了安娜的便宜之后他几乎是大笑着翻上马背，连夜赶到了醉醺醺的美国人的营地，在不到一刻钟的时间里把所有人砍翻在地，外套浸满了血。  
“你们去点火，我去把少校杀掉。”他嘱咐自己唯一的黑人下属，无视对方一脸复杂。  
他差不多是边哼歌边踹开了那个监牢的门（而他发现那扇门本来就是开着的）。以后再也不用见到那个伪君子叫人恶心的表情了，他想着，如果能先听他求饶再动手，应该也很过瘾吧。  
谋杀对象倒在角落，脏兮兮的，仿佛已经死了。但那双棕色的眼睛大睁着，毫无焦点地转向凶手。西姆科觉得自己应该先一刀捅进他的眼眶里。  
像蛇吞食猎物之前要先紧紧绞住使其无法逃脱、无法呼吸一样，他的阴影落在休伊特身上，餮足地观察者对方的神色在自己的逼近下由恐惧变得绝望。他已经折断了兔子的四肢，破开了它的肚腹，是时候咬开它的喉咙将它撕食殆尽了。他听到了自己带笑的声音，就像鬣狗一拥而上之前低哑的狞笑。  
然后休伊特把雪亮的刀刃没入了他的侧腹，刀柄和手掌紧紧地顶住了他的皮肤。西姆科在一刻恍惚之后眼前一白，浑身发寒，就像推开冬日的门时被风雪扑了满脸满怀。他低头，滚热的血烫得他和那个瘦小的行凶者（前一秒还是被害者）同时瑟缩。鲜血肆意横流，在月光下、在雪色上、在休伊特惨白的肢体上火焰一般劈啪作响。见惯了别人流血的游骑兵此刻却觉得不可置信——原来这便是他的身体和灵魂里唯一温暖而有颜色的东西。  
他的猎物转败为胜。他竟把他放跑了！恼羞成怒的西姆科想去抓回他，却最终昏倒在自己冷下去的火焰中。但在他被打败的那一瞬间，有什么东西回到了他的脑际。  
第一个死在他手下的活物。被他捧在手心的白绢中的，他的第一件作品。那件作品远称不上令他满意。不到十七岁的他已经隐约感觉到了何为真正的作品：单单剥夺无力的生命还远远不够。取走本就不属于孱弱者的生命毫无趣味，曾经他舐去死物喙上的血，却怅然若失。这让他觉得讨厌而乏味，和他当初面对休伊特少校时的感受如出一辙。虽然如此，虽然如此。他恍然间懂得了下一步该如何。  
他找到了曾经的云雀。他要把它夺回来，他会把它变成自己最出色的作品，没有人能把他们分开，永远不能。就算是死亡，他唯一接受并需要的也只能是那只被淋湿了自己的鲜血的猎物带给他的死亡。他被自己的热望激动着死撑起身体，由奔过来的下属抓住胳膊免得倒在一地狼藉中。玻璃似的蓝眼睛里再次映出了残破死去的生物。他几乎力竭，但仍然最后地微笑了下；脑海中的声音带着将近十年前的青涩的骄傲：“Mon alouette.”


End file.
